Stinky Ugly Toys

business discussion with a record store troll

2007-08-21T06:48:00.000-07:00

JW went up to it, the desk.

"How many web sites can we sell you today?" JW asked playfully, with venom in his stride, as he whisked past the proprietor, who was in his habitual mode of staring at a computer screen. JW advanced rapidly, as he headed for the far end of the record shop, pretending to forage.

"None," the scraggly owner retaliated. "You must really want something," he continued, in reference to the driving rain that was forcing other customers to stay at home and wait it out.

"No. My boss isn't coming in for another hour, and it's 11:30 already, and I'm bored. So I thought I'd come in and harrass you. If I'm really stupid, I may buy something. But I better not."

JW stared intensely at the used CDs. Nothing there to tempt him, not today anyway.

"So your band is playing at Blues Fest, eh?" JW interjected abruptly as he moved toward the check out area. "End of August? What time?"

"9:00"

"PM?"

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Hour and a half."

"Good," JW replied with a hint of a smile. "You want me to set up a channel for live streaming video so your fans can watch you live, right? That's what you said you were interested in last time we talked."

"What? No. Not a live stream," he said gruffly, like it was some horrible thing. "I just want someone to take a video camcorder and film us playing, then give it to us in a file format that we can attach to a newsletter, or upload to YouTube and MySpace."

"What?" JW asked.

"But I don't want to spend any money on it. Anything beyond...breakfast...I'm not interested," the record store owner growled solemnly.

He continued in a violent display of vocal aggression and desperation: "I'm not spending anymore money on a band! Never again!"

JW could see through the grim demeanor and thought he saw a plain vanilla loser, a wounded animal who's angry at the entire world and all it representatives. The message was clear: if you want to do any work for me, it has to be free. Maybe I'll buy you a cheap breakfast at Hardees, for doing the video work.

"There are all kinds of free music marketing tools out there, in what they call Web 2.0. If you have the talent, the tools exist!" JW exclaimed as he exited the dilapidated rotting mess of a broken building that housed the record shop.

It was painfully obvious. He dumped a lot of money into his band, but nobody wants the kind of music his band plays, it's just a bar band doing cover tunes, and nobody cares.

Now he's bitter and spiteful, ending his days doing eBay deals, losing money again, but not knowing what else to do. Any talk of promotions, marketing, web sites, or video streaming is just more salt in the wounds.

सोमोने एल्स'एस सॉफ्ट दीप mud

2007-06-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

Alenby just sat there. The more he sat, the more angry I became, though I'm not a big fan of being angry. It's just that Alenby was so smug in his sloughing and I hate sinking in someone else's soft deep mud.

"What's up Alenby?" the boss said, as I turned my gaze toward yet another board in the floor. I was searching for a precious office supply, in this case a paper clip, that I thought I heard myself drop. Perhaps it was nothing. Maybe that ill defined sound was the last gasp of a dying star somewhere, triumphant in its fry, yelping its swan song across the cosmic effluvium.

"Chillin'", said Alenby with a carefully prepared grimace, locally applied.

"Don't you have any work to do?" boss says in retaliation.

Alenby says nothing, jams a cigarette in his sneer, and storms out to sit in his car for a while, it's his security blanket and place of meditative refuge, the womb of all regrets. "If only I hadn't screwed my life up so bad ever since I was born", he prays to himself in solemn strange smokey silence.

night of the space people

2006-11-12T17:47:00.000-08:00

night of the space people (9:59)
A sci fi mini-film, well done, good plot and acting.

Hope Is Emo 6

2006-09-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Hope Is Emo 6 (3:41)

Time 4 Bed

2006-09-09T22:59:00.000-07:00

Very Tasteful: "Time for Bed" (2:04)

theremin playing demo by Ether and Aether

2006-09-06T15:44:00.000-07:00

Ether and Aether: "Prisoner of Zelda" on theremin w/synth (1:28)

The Bolus

2006-09-04T23:34:00.000-07:00

Orb, sphere, small round mass of mystery, the bolus.

The bolus is. It moves when I'm not looking.

Right now, its there. It sits there, still and silent. Unrevealing. Mute. Not telling any tales about its origin or purpose or next step.

Yesterday evening we spotted it on our property.

It appeared in the bushes under the livingroom window looking out toward the street in front of the house. It looked as though a child had poked at it with a sharp stick, or an animal had bit a hole in it, because there were some crumbs beside it, a chunk missing, which gave us visual access to an interior, which is soap-like and white.

It's covered with grassy twiggy exterior shell, which makes me see it as a possible waste material from some huge mammal. That scares me quite substantially. I can't sleep at night. I stay up typing speeches and lectures addressed to the bolus.

Then it moved, or was moved, to the driveway early next morning.

This was intolerably odd.

Our bolus had neither wings nor feet nor any indication that it was alive and in command of any senses. It looked neither composed nor decomposed, and did n't bear any marks of servitude or direction. It seemed pointless, absurd, imprecise because unknown.

I still don't know what it is. It's round, it's almost the size of a billiard ball, a bit smaller. Heavy. A lard or soap-like hardness, not like a fluff mushroom or puffball toadstool. Our bolus is now sheltered in the abandoned haunted doghouse out back by the squash garden.

It's like being insane, this not knowing what something is, but it exists. Without explanation, without destination, without history, without value, but it's there. Staring at you. Daring you to define and exploit it.

I tried to kill it a few hours ago, but...did you hear that? I did. Shhh. There it is again. Look. It's right there, on the floor now, by the door to the attic. How did it get in? No, I'm wrong. It...it's over by the lampstand now. It knows how to roll from spot to spot and can change direction and speed when it wants to.

It seems to like me. It had been on voyages to remote parts of consciousness and now I cannot be me, for I am now the bolus, only the bolus, I ... uh ... huh? ... I feel woozy and my arms are shaking ... I am ... the bolus. As the bolus I come to ... uh ... ummm ... the ... the ... bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus.

It keeps rubbing against my ankles like a little kitten might do. It tickles a bit. I don't find the sensation unpleasant in the slightest. To the contrary, it makes me dream of days gone by, when I was a small child without weapons or language, when I was easy to defeat and invade telepathically. When I was at the mercy of the bolus and it's every command.

bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus. bolus.

I love the bolus. I obey the bolus. I am the bolus. The bolklsulaa'ld ldk ji'aussssss++++=d=d=wet b=5

bolus. bolus.

what did you say?

2006-09-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

I said, "I wish you would."

what?

2006-09-01T22:21:00.000-07:00

I wish you would.

message from president of Iran

2006-08-20T10:38:00.000-07:00

It's great to see scumbag dictators crumble in lust and humiliation once they arrive in America, land of the free and home of the studs.

Dan Mirvish
"message from the president of Iran" (2:35)

baby in a beer glass trees

2006-08-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon the bizarre sound genius and music technician, Chenard Walcker, in a dream the other night. I dreamt that he and a guy, seems like it was Joel Carner, made a weird video.

This video featured nothing but a baby's head viewed through a beer glass as trees pass through it. While the music, as I dimly recall it, was splendid, the visual element was a bit disconcerting. I'm not used to this kind of meaningless abstraction in art or society. See what you think...

Chenard Walcker
"Baby in a Beer Glass Trees" (1:57)

the one adventure of Johnny Backward

2006-08-17T00:36:00.000-07:00

A boy named Johnny Backward wanted people to like him. He wanted them to pay all their attention to him, him alone, and they were supposed to abandon their self-interest and other pursuits. Everyone hated and avoided him.

One day he had an adventure. It was the only adventure of his life. He never had another one. Here's what happened. He fell down. Hurt his knee. He cursed loudly. Mom put a bar of Ivory soap in his mouth and made him chew it for forty-five minutes, without swallowing any of it. He then was allowed to brush his teeth with comet, to get the bad taste out of his mouth.

That was the only thing that every happened to Johnny Backward.

His entire life began and is still going, he's not dead yet, but nothing of any importance has ever happened to the guy. He has no anecdotes. No reveries. No scrapbook of memories. He's a non-entity moving through a series of non-events until he finally disappears from the earth he barely touches.

THE END

popular new Fire Survivor game

2006-08-13T18:07:00.000-07:00

There is an epidemic of young hoodlums dousing themselves with volatile oils, Ben Gay, hydrogen peroxide, and diesel fuel. They set themselves on fire, artificially, and see if they can figure out how to survive. The new popular game is called Fire Survivor. Few do. Survive, I mean.

Invisible Engine
"Eulogy for Chad" (4:25)

Haco has a Pencil Organ

2006-08-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

Haco has made a Pencil Organ. She wishes I suppose to. Entertain me. So quite naturally, I put my bowl of nutmeg roasted raisins down, and took a gander at the contraption.

Sparks started flying and zapping around when I touched a control knoblet. "Don't dare mess with that," I thought to myself,"...it has the power to kill you!"

I didn't much care for killer sound generators or murder-prone musical instruments.

"Why would it want to hurt me?" I asked Haco.

[QUOTE]

"Pencil Organ" is an instrument created from a home electronics kit.

By tracing two test leads (+/-) across a thick sheet of paper covered with pencil markings, sound is created. By controling the two electrodes (+ and -) with one's hands and a person can become a part (the resistance) of an electronic circuit.

The sound is amazingly varied, and the human body (or say, an apple) also produces sound when touched. Changing or slightly dislodging a couple of the parts (blocks) in the electronic circuit adds to the range of the instrument.

The nerves in the human body also function via electricity, and though extremely weak, magnetic fields are known to exist within the body.

[END QUOTE]

GWAGS Phone Talk Technique!

2006-08-11T19:33:00.000-07:00

Hi. Sleialgnion here. I kicked Vaspers the Grate off this site. Now I can put videos of my favorite friends here. This one is a Mr. GWAGS (gee wags) and he knows all about girls, friendship casseroles, and telecommunication tricks. Watch!

GWAGS: "How to talk to a girl on the phone for hours without really talking"
(4:01)

Sleialgnion is trying to break in!

2006-08-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

Vaspers the Grate aka Serious Boy told me yesterday that Sleialgnion is attempting to forcibly enter this site and smear it with malicious slimey spam comments and even spam posts!

Now, we know Vaspers had a spot of trouble with a Lonnie Leopoldi who hacked into his crummy blog and defiled it and defaced and darn near deleted the entire thing, archives and all.

We will be watching this site carefully, so if any of you varnish eaters want to help, we could use it.

His name again is Sleialngion, pronounced Slee-al-nee-on.

"al" as in "alcohol"

Sleia had a web site, of sorts, a while ago, but it seems that he disfigured it by dumping it into a bad design template from Middleasia and is now so frustrated that he wants to hurt and strike out against his quiet and peace loving neighbors in the bloogysphere.

--signed: Sleialgnion the Neon Onion

Brad's shirt shines like a thousand crimson stars

2006-07-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

I had vomited twice already, that's how worried I was. I could feel a mighty cloud of gloom fasten its antennae to my head so I would be nothing more than a passive row of rotating regular receptors.

Something terrible might have happened to Brad, so I feared at the time. It wasn't like him to arrive even a few minutes late. I squirmed and fidgeted in my chair. The donut I ate an hour and a half ago now was causing my stomach to rumble with sour sighs.

I scratched my ear, stretched my arms, stood up, and looked around for the three hundreth time. The other patrons gave me hateful looks. They were bothered by my head bobbing, neck twisting, and tiptoe peering over the crowd, trying to see if I might spot Brad heading toward me.

I was just about half a minute from giving up, and returning home. I jumped up, knocked my and two other guys' drinks over, to take one last look around, before declaring the night a total failure.

Finally, here he came, nearly 45 minutes late, wearing a red satin sheen Cutter & Buck Dry Tech shirt that wicks moisture away from your skin, while drying rapidly to keep you cool and comfortable. Pairing integrity of design and traditional quality construction with the latest in innovative technology, Brad's high performance garment was providing him with absolute protection and luxurious ease of wear, in any weather or clime.

#1 secret of creative writing

2006-07-13T19:19:00.000-07:00

...is to do this, exactly as I spell it out to you:

(1) Make up the most absurd title you can think of

(like

How To Disappear and Be Invisible

or Why Air is Unnecessary

or Headless Soldiers

or I Fall Asleep in the Center of the Planet Pluto

or Complete False Instructions on How To Almost Write a Successful, Poor Selling Novel for Vast and Worthless Profits).

(2) Force yourself to figure out some way to write something based on this bizarre and impossible title.

sinking ship report

2006-07-13T18:51:00.000-07:00

"Sir, I believe the ship is not steady horizontally, if you'll pardon my being so bold as to say so, in such a direct and sudden manner" I said.

I was hired unexpectedly, one might say maniacally, and for three days straight, I did next to nothing but stare at a door that refused to swing. A carpet sans footsteps. The business was dead, and I had no idea why I was being paid to watch it rot.

That door just stood there, that carpet just ached for feet to tread upon it. I heard it scream once in forlorn agony of empty uselessness.

Can you guess how exhausting it is to do nothing all day long? It's not easy to stare at one thing, then another, then read a little of a book, then drink from a water bottle, then find something else to stare at. Hour after deadly dull hour. You run out of reveries and places to scratch yourself.

The sheer lunacy of the situation was refreshing, in an oppressive way. The weight of nothingness pressed down on me so heavily I could hardly breathe or think.

I went home with brain dead written all over my face. I looked at others and all things with vacant, frigid eyes.

It was eating my mind right out of my head, sucking it out my eye sockets, this periscopic drowning pool.

I felt myself swirling down some unknowable, unimaginably desolate drain, to be set adrift, eventually, in the waves I saw as they were sluggishly washing and whirling away, outwardly expanding toward the rapidly spinning vortex of dizzy and unseemly sewage, a bored and tested effluvial disdain.

The Other Thans: my secret society for scaring people

2006-07-08T21:06:00.000-07:00

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," I started to explain. At that point, I had not told her anything, but was getting ready to do so.

My face wore a grave expression.

"What?" Blake asked.

"I mean, there's nothing to be done about it really," I continued in a murky manner. "I got fired, again, and I'm really annoyed about how it happened."

I gave Blake all the gory details of trust, enthusiasm, hard work, sincerity, betrayal, termination. The typical story of my long string of job failures. Falling flat on my face was becoming an entrenched trend. While I could blame from 2% to 20% of it on myself, I was convinced that I was being misunderstood, mistreated, and mangled by the gears of corporate systems.

Blake was silent for what seemed like about 10 minutes. He turned away from me and stared off toward the woods behind my house. I sat there, wondering what he was contemplating.

"I know what needs to be done," he said finally. "We need to form a cult, then invade the store wearing weird esoteric costumes. Perform a bizarre but quick ritual. Shake them up, you know?"

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"What good would that do?" I asked, slightly irritated at such a mysterious suggestion. I knew he was serious, but it didn't make any sense. "Just to scare them or something?"

"Freak them out", Blake replied.

"Why?"

"Revenge."

"How would that be retaliation?" I asked. I could not imagine any possible benefits from such an act, nor could I envision what the costumes and ritual might be. It reminded me of guerilla theatre, a surveillance camera skit.

"You'll see," Blake assured me. "What we'll do is invade the store, and act like we're performing a curse against them, something memorable that will haunt them for a long time. If they're superstitious or easily influenced, we'll have a big impact."

So that's how my secret society of The Other Thans came about.

Blake was right: the bizarre costumes, incoherent mutterings, and flashy stage effects really did the trick. We fried their circuits to the max. Several employees had to seek psychiatric counseling after we pulled that mystical stunt. I was proud of Blake and my other buddies who joined in on the fun.

From retaliation against an employer, to intimidating my trailer trashy neighbors who used the block as a day care center, The Other Thans soon became an incredibly effective weapon in my arsenal.

If anyone is interested in more details, I'd be happy to provide them. This strategy can be applied to a wide variety of situations.

pylon frenzy

2006-04-29T20:59:00.000-07:00

"All right!" I said to my buddy, who was almost about to get struck by a speeding car. Whoosh. The tires hit a filthy puddle with tremendous splashing force, but no human fatality. The amplitude vector of splatter-sloshic impact made a gigantic impression upon me and Tony.

Tony was doing okay.

This was our fifth orange pylon theft of the night. Pylons, measuring about three feet tall and 2 feet wide, were what we were after. The springtime highway construction sites provided ample, albeit unauthorized, supply. We only needed twelve more. I had five pylons in the basement, gleaming in the murky moonlight.

My artistic vision was reigning like mental electricity in the bursting forth of stranger beholdings.

I fail my bookstore interview

2006-04-13T19:44:00.000-07:00

I wanted to get closer to books and CDs, and I needed an excuse to log off the computer and leave the house for some fresh air and physical movement.

So I applied at the local Wieman's Giant Bookstore. Every thing seemed to be going fine. Until. Until I unfortunately acted overly zealous and bookwormy. I really blew it, right at the very tail end of the interview process.

"What books are you reading now?" she asked.

I smiled. This seemed like a nice question, one I could answer without hesitation or shimshamming around.

"I'm reading Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay." I paused to collect my thoughts. The lady interviewer jotted something down, which I assume was the title of the book I had just recited.

"And Shelley's Poetical Works, the Oxford edition", I added like an enthusiastic idiot. Suddenly realizing that mentioning two poetry books in a row might make me appear to be unreliably effeminate, I switched gears.

"Remembrance of Things Past by Proust. The Last Man by Maurice Blanchot. Djinn by Alain Robbes-Grillet. The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles. The Norton Anthology of English Literature, The Major Authors, Sixth Edition. Do you like Ben Jonson? Let me quote a sample to refresh your memory. This is his "On Something, That Walks Somewhere"...

"A poem?" she asked bitterly, with a definite sneer. I could see that she hated poetry, or men who like poetry, but I fouled up again, and it was too late to stop. I had to quote the poem, whether it do me good or ill. My mouth kept going, spilling forth the gruesome rhyme.

When I called my friend who works at the bookstore, he told me the lady interviewer was not suitably impressed with my overbearing gusto and verve. She considered me offensive, based on my reading several books simultaneously.

I noticed how she quite taking notes after I mentioned book number 6 in my list of what I'm actually reading now.

Anyway, I thought I'd quote the poem for you here, since the damage has already been done.

"On Something, That Walks Somewhere"
by Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

At court I met it, in clothes brave enough
To be a courtier, and looks grave enough

To seem a stateman: as I near it came,
It made me a great face. I asked the name.

"A lord," it cried, "buried in flesh and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none; and as little ill,
For I will dare none."

Good lord, walk dead still.

killer unicorns and me

2006-04-05T17:44:00.000-07:00

I entered the arena with trepidation. When my fans started cheering, I knew I was in trouble. They weren't cheering me. They were cheering the mechanical unicorns that were amassed against me.

Why did anyone think a horse with a sharp pointed spear on its head was gentle, peaceful, or kind? A horn is for attack and defense.

My fans had turned on me, and now, as I stared up at them, I could see the scowls and grimaces that seemed to unite into a consensus condemnation. They surely knew it was wrong to be so bloodthirsty, but they didn't care. Titans of hostility directed toward me, I wished them well as I prepared for the painful slaughter, culminating in mutilated demise, the end of what I fancy is me.

There I was, all alone, facing about twenty or thirty killer unicorns. Made of steel, with diamond sewage laser tipped needles, and electricity, their animosity, programmed by a human hater, was thickly set against me, to do me ill.

Litany of Lies

2006-02-01T09:42:00.000-08:00

The rocket pointed at my chest had a blue laser streaming vapidly with sick precision from the bitter poisoned tip of the blade's cutting teeth and ripping jaws encased in seething suspicions which were hideously sharpened by radioactive bio-harzardous sewage-drenched chainsaws of mediocrity and the gut-wrenchingly nauseating stench of an unclean spirit of error.

The very originality and gusto of the sentence above is proof enough: I am like no other, especially now.

The unclean spirit of error whispered into the Group Ear: this is a danger.

I was painted with broad strokes of insurgency against the intruder, crusader, liberator, customer service repairer.

A one-man complaint and suggestion department, which is the true heart of any operation, I shielded my eyes from the shame. A filthy rinse of slobberings filled every cup with putrid juice. I looked into and successfully entered my deeper inner self, my secret power station where the unconscious, nonconscious, and superconscious meet and shake hands.

the character who thinks he's me

2006-01-24T11:14:00.000-08:00

The character who thinks he's me had better watch out, and be a pal to what can't be defined or defended in time. Take f'rinstance this sentence. Did you take it? Why or why not? When it rains, it's poor. Over up above, nothing seems to occur, but do we really think that everything arises from a grind of being, and not at all floating down from up there?

Soup of Stupefaction

2005-12-09T15:30:00.000-08:00

I saw this hole in my mind.

I peered, then crawled, into it. I disappeared. Now, I'm stuck. I cannot get out. I cannot get my bearings in this place.

What can I do?

Everywhere I turn, there I am. Again. And again. Nothing but me meeting me in my meness. Somebody told me once that this could happen, but I could not believe it at the time. Now I know for sure that it's true. There is this darkness that swoons and swarms all around me like a soup of stupefaction.

Not "satisfaction", but "stupefaction", the state of being stupified. Stunned. Dull. Lethargic. It's astonishing and annoying. Nothing but me.

Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

Novels I have written and lost

2005-11-18T21:11:00.000-08:00

...include the following titles:

(1) The Dandy of the Drainspouts

(2) Spurious Mosaics

(3) The Road to Chanel du Mar

(4) Visit to the Illumination Center

(5) The Haunted Toilet

(6) Vampire Hotel

(7) Sorrowful Phantoms in the Dead City

(8) Faces from Nowhere

(9) Genetic Reactivator 9-12

(10) Headless Soldiers and Other Micro Tales

I also am currently working on
two scientific academic works:

(1) Fake Instructions on How to Almost Write an Instant Classic Novel

(2) False Vision of the Future of Computing and Remote Sense Reality

And a new novel, created via a blog utility: sleialgnion.

======================================================

[not really or is it?]----me----

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

cure for cancer

2005-11-16T01:06:00.000-08:00

Hello.

I just discovered a cure for cancer.

Brought permanent peace to the Middle East.

Ended world hunger.

Put a stop to all wars.

Eliminated global poverty.

Made a killer music CD.

Wrote an instant classic novel.

Forced everyone on earth to fall in love with me and my opinions.

Became the most handsome man who ever existed.

Got certified Most Intelligent by all the intellectuals.

Transformed all ugliness and mediocrity into beauty and excellance.

Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.

The Anti-Christ, Anti-Buddha, Anti-Socrates.

blah blah blah, etc.

2005-11-16T01:01:00.000-08:00

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

this is what most personal drivel blogs sound like.

blog blog blog blog blog blog blog blog.

no relevance. no benefit to others. no interesting anecdotes to make you laugh or make you smarter.

just...

blah blah blah blah blog blog blog blog blog.

And, to make matters worse, the text is usually in long dense paragraphs, no paragraph breaks until about twenty six sentences string out and give you a headache.

Why do so many people think their boring lives are worth blogging about? Must be nuts.

I did not lose anything

2005-11-01T21:21:00.000-08:00

Today I lost my focus.

Lost my hocus pocus.

Today I lost a wing.

Today I lost a thing.

When something vanishes, it takes something from the inside of you out, it harvests an internal sector, robs you of more than just itself, something else, somewhat other, a piece of you vanishes along with it, that part of yourself that was related to, interacting with, the external object you lost.

If we lose many things all at once, as often happens, much of the self seems to be hijacked, erased, stopped.

As the former sense of self slows down and recedes from center stage, who can be really sure what will replace it? A better or worse version of you? What are you when a certain thing is no longer there to define and shape a segment of you?

We have no idea how attached we are to something while attached to it in a normalcy mode. But when it changes or departs, we know everything all of a sudden, the shock hits us like a bullet with a frowning face.

When loss occurs, the self, the entire personality becomes hardened and strange, becomes other, becomes what it could never have already imagined or avoided.

The odd geometry of psychology solving hidden problems deeply within.

I did not lose anything.

going for his knife

2005-10-09T14:59:00.000-07:00

I lived in the Chelsea Hotel one day in the late 1980's, around 1988.

I was in a punk-noise-electronic band, CAMOUFLAGE DANSE, and my girlfriend Vava Vol and I stayed there one day and night.

I wanted to record a "Live at Hotel Chelsea" performance of my band there. But stupidly, I didn't force the guys to do it, but I regret it now.

Sometime in near future, if there is such a thing as near and future combined, I wish to do a solo electronic music show there, in a room at the Chelsea Hotel.

:*)

Friday, October 07, 2005 1:17:41 PM
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Zafufilia said...

Buddha and Plato... Isn't that like tequila and kahlua?

Sunday, October 09, 2005 4:27:28 PM
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Zafufilia said...

I work in that area. However, I have not been by there in twenty years. And I've never been in it. I'd meet you there to make a record though...

One of my favorite movies of the '80s is Sid and Nancy, which depicts her demise at the hotel. I am fascinated by the way Chloe Webb says "Siiiiiiiiiid.... But SSSsiiiiiiiiid."

Sunday, October 09, 2005 4:31:25 PM
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Steven Streight said...

My band CAMOUFLAGE DANSE, music of which is now available in an album "Our Sound", which I will try to feature as an audio blog here at Vaspers the Grate, was more everything than Sid's.

After I saw SID AND NANCY film in a midtown NYC movie theatre, I accidentally bumped into a guy walking down the street holding a martini, which I had inadvertently sloshed by stumbling into him.

I mumbled some apologetic text, then he, not hearing it or thinking it sufficient, started to get smart with me, complaining about the sloshing of his beverage, and reaching for his back pocket.

That meant he was going for his knife.

Sunday, October 09, 2005 4:53:44 PM
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Marmot tonight

2005-10-03T21:06:00.000-07:00

I saw a huge marmot tonight as I was mowing the lawn.

I had just finished with the front, and was walking around the backyard, removing sticks, when suddenly: there it was.

Lumbering down the far side of my backyard, headed for the stream down in the woods. It stopped when it noticed me looking at it. I yelled something friendly at it, and it lumbered off a little faster, disappearing in the creek.

After the shock of unexpected discovery and encounter wore off, I began to assess my danger. It looked to be about 2 1/2 to 3 feet long and nearly a foot wide. And I had no weapon nearby, should it decide to act mean or scared, and turn to attack me. I was sure I could not kick it to death. My situation was bleak. I returned to the front yard to get the reel mower.

Who knows where it is, what it's doing, what it's thinking now?

I might look around the property with a quartz halogen spotlight and see if I run into it again. I'm sure he's as curious about me as I am about him. Maybe the rodent, commonly known as a hedgehog or groundhog, hog I guess because of its size, a cross between a brown wood squirrel and a giant river rat.

The marmot. Tonight. ?

25 breakfasts

2005-10-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

I can't even say it.

Try it.

Say "twenty five breakfasts".

Are you catching yourself saying "breakfastes"?

How can you vocally indicate the word "breakfast" is plural?

This is the problem that Acep was haunted by, and he could not stop worrying about it.

Also:

"Can one person rationally, or realistically, eat 25 breakfasts before lunchtime?"

"What time would that person have to wake up to accomplish this feat? What types of breakfasts foods would be involved, in what order?"

:*)

Things That Appear in the Bathtub

2005-10-02T17:37:00.000-07:00

When things that appear in the bathtub, for no reason, just suddenly happen to be there, you know not how they arrived, nor from where they came, when they look like this...

...you're in a lot of trouble.

Space Athlete

2005-10-01T18:52:00.000-07:00

Space Athlete: performs stunts in and around space stations, shuttles, solar wind gliders, satellite networks, orbital telescope arrays, surface exploration and sampling craft, and manned landing vehicles.

Can actually make needed repairs while performing entertaining tricks and dangerous acrobatic maneuvers. One little slip, and off you go into eternal outer space, with no hope of being rescued.

So read my personal ad, trying to find work.

An unemployed space athlete is not a pretty sight. We languish, wishing we could land a "floater", our term for "job", because we do a lot of floating as we make repairs and entertain spectators.

What nobody knows is that, between jobs, we also practice Eastern-style levitation exercises, just to stay loosened up for the next gig.

The problem is, now I've levitated too high, and, to make matter worse, no matter how hard I try, I cannot come down.

I was in my backyard, and it was really dark, so I dared to do some outdoor levitating. I rose rapidly, I'm sure no one saw me. But then I got stuck, and I'm using my wireless laptop, which I luckily had with me, to publish this post.

I figure if someone, an initiated riser, knows how to solve this problem, they can post a comment, or email me. I'm just hanging around, suspended against my will. Please, if you know the technique I need to implement, to override this default lofting, share that information with me.

About an hour ago, I was spotted by the police as I hovered sleepily near the top of the pine tree in my backyard. Gunshots abruptly snapped me back into a wide-awake state and a surly mood. They were firing at me.

Apparently, a human who can defy gravity is an anarchist who defies any other law he damn well pleases, according to these officers. Again with the gunshots. But I couldn't will myself down, I don't know why.

I seemed to be doomed to an eternal hover mode. Some mental mechanism has jammed. Morning will come eventually, soon in fact, and then everyone will be able to see me up here. This is not good. I'll probably lose my space athlete license: "reckless exposure of secret maneuvers" the report will state.

When I got far enough away from the cops, by swooshing horizontally to a spot behind a fussy clump of tall trees in the woods in back of my neighbor's bungalow, I upchucked my lunch all over a tree trunk, I was that upset.

Getting shot at is a very unpleasant experience, especially if you're on a guilt trip about your levitation skills being discovered by local policemen. I was hoping they didn't assume correctly that I lived in the house I was hovering above.

Of course, I'll deny it was me that was floating, if I ever come down and they interrogate me. I hate to lie, in fact, I almost never tell untruth, but in this case, what choice do I really have?

It sucks being trapped in a levitative dysfunction. There are no coffee shops, record stores, or bars up here. They're all down there, far below me.

This bites.

:^(

Lions and Tornadoes

2005-10-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

~~Never.~~

I dreamt of both lions. and tornadoes the"irgw===night.

~~Lemons and torpedoes~~.

I dreamt: lions and tornadoes. All around {me}.

Then the, edging into reality, incognito, shadows: face to face with lions, then tornadoes. The lions won't leave me alone. I don't know why. They follow me, they're everywhere. Then the whole dream changes, or becomes another, and I'm in the path of a tornado, then a cluster of them. I gaze in awe at them, and the horror never hits me. Just awe at the power and the form.

Once upon a time, there was a hidden message in this story. The message consisted of instructions on how to build an elevator to the moon, twisting and wreathing its way from earth to the lunar surface, attached like a living appendage, causing a tide of its own, a pull, a grave situation of essentially unearthing earthies, turning any healthy human into an elevator-naut, an astro-vator aviator. This conveyance quickly becomes the recreational adventure of choice for all who can afford it. NASA and some construction and cable firms partner to bring you the ride of a lifetime, a cruise beyond anything ever imagined: honeymoon on the moon, then safely returned to earth.

The tornadoes are sudden onsets. Last night I dreamt I and my family were in the eye of a twister.

[They always seem the same as alien death rays.]

It, the steady vision socket of the storm, of the tornado, it was looking at us one last time, calmly, prior to killing us for sport.

Lions and tornadoes.

~~Tenderloins and tomatoes.~~

~~I eat them all.~~

I don't fear them.

They fall down for me.

.....

Buddha sitting in my computer

2005-09-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of President Peppermint, Mint Mao, or Sweetness as a powerful political platform.

We were dreaming of a forever faraway future.

The Reign of Niceness.

A Land of Gentle People.

It would be like the day Buddha descended upon and sat inside my computer.

And I float away on universal waves of sealed lips and unspoken hearts.

Biff Storms Out of a Real Estate Closing

2005-09-15T19:25:00.000-07:00

A lot of furtive whisperings and murmurings. "Are you going to tell him?" anf "Yes, I'll tell him about it."

Already, on the big event evening, the main event of the entire transaction, everything was about to unravel.

"This is going to be what we call a dry run closing", buyer realtor said.

"I don't like the sound of that," Biff mumbled silently to himself.

Seller realtor chimed in: "The previous owner, since he did make some house payments, needs to sign off on the deed. He hasn't UPS'd it to us yet."

Later Biff, who was trying to buy the bungalow, heard that the previous owner guy was at this moment on a lunch break, but he didn't know where to find a notary. You must understand sufficiently that Biff (but how would you know if you weren't specifically told?) had all his ducks in a row, meaning he was organized, complete, and punctual.

These professionals were in chaos, stacks of paper, and ears made to channel randomly flowing rivers of news, money, and news about money.

Upon hearing that the previous owner, as explained stiffly by the seller realtor, was unsure where to hurry up and find a notary, the buyer's agent exclaimed with a matriarchal majesty: "You can find notaries everywhere" and proceeded to declare examples substantiating her theory.

The seller's real estate agent reluctantly replied, "Well, I guess I could call him back and help him decided where to go to find a notary..." Real enthusiastic like. A poor show. Inappropriate response amongst sales and financing professionals and the consumer-client. Totally unacceptable.

Biff exploded.

"This guy is out there, if you know what I mean. Do I have any legal recourse if he balks and stalls on signing the deed and sending it to us? A real piece of work, this guy. And he's a liar."

Seller agent, tepidly: "I don't think he's a liar. What lies has he told?"

Biff: "First he claims the UPS package, with the deed in it, got to him late because there was no apartment number on it. Then he claims he has an incentive payment due to him, but the sale had to occur within 90 days, and the neighbor across has a very different version of the story of his leaving town in a hurry to go to Florida. Lots of details don't add up, so I figure we got ourselves a liar here."

Deed transaction professional, holding up a sheet of paper: "I put the apartment number on the UPS package. See?"

When Biff saw that the address was indeed on the packing slip, but far removed, for some idiot reason, from the rest of the address, so far it would easily not be noticed, he was done.

But then he also heard that the blood-stained mattress lying maliciously in the livingroom appeared there months after the previous owner had moved out. So Biff had been correct: it was a mattress that had been brought in by a drug addict who had a key or busted in somehow. Creepy.

"That's it," Biff bellowed, rising up out of the soft leather seat.

"There's nothing more I can do. I've signed everything. Now we have to wait for him to sign the deed, notarize it, fax us a copy, and UPS the original. I'm out of here. I've got other things to do, and I may have to cancel the insurance, movers, new furniture deliveries, changing the locks, appliance installations, internet broadband connection, and everything. I'm not paying a penny if all new papers have to be drawn up at the bank, with new interest rates calculated. This is ridiculous."

Biff stormed out of the meeting, bought a new pair of tennis shoes, and had a nice dinner in his favorite restaurant.

the first impersonal blog

2005-09-15T09:37:00.000-07:00

This is the first
impersonal blog:

a blog that pretends to be personal trivia, mundane drivel, boring details of an uneventful life, but is possibly fictional, in part or in whole.

It must be this way.

If it were to be called a Personal Blog, people would wrongly conclude that I'm writing about my life experiences and things that fully happened.

If it were to be called Business Blog, people would be hoodwinked into thinking I was trying to sell something, or explaining how to sell somethings.

If it were to be called a Fictional Blog, people would incorrectly think this was all pure rubbish, flights of fancy, foolhardy fantasy, without a single bone or phone of reality within it.

It needed a new category.

Stinky Ugly Toys, the outcast castoff, in search of new territory.

Thus: the Impersonal Blog.

The next logical step after my Unblog: Jejune Jumpers.

Welcome to it:

Stinky Ugly Toys.

Things that almost, partially,
or possibly Happened.

Or maybe not.

:^)